


The Value of Nothing

by TheIneffableLily



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Artists, Artists, Financial Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Just to be safe, M/M, but i tagged character death anyway, only merrick dies, past joe/merrick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIneffableLily/pseuds/TheIneffableLily
Summary: Maybe Joe was ready to start dating again, and Nicky wasn’t about to let another man cut in line now that they were both single and living in the same country.Don’t look too eager, he whispered to himself on the back of the taxi. Try to make it to dessert before asking for his hand in marriage.Yes, that sounded reasonable. But Nicky wasn’t making any promises.Either way, we’re sharing a taxi when the night is over, he thought, pretending that was a reasonable compromise. I didn’t put on my best suit not to see it scattered on his bedroom floor. That would be such a waste.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Steven Merrick
Comments: 17
Kudos: 94





	The Value of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I've been staring at this story for months now and I thought the only way to force myself to finish it would be to post the first half and hope for the best. I don't know where this is going, but I expect a second chapter to be done in the future.
> 
> TW: abuse, cheating, suicide (implied), financial abuse.

The Value of Nothing

The last time Nicky had spoken to Joe had been during one of his expositions. Most of the patrons had gravitated to the large tank in the middle of the room and wasted the night debating whether his most imposing art piece was an expression of feminism or religious oppression. Nicky hadn’t been doing expositions for long, but he already knew that giving them vague answers fanned their curiosity and made them more willing to open their wallets. It was one of his least favorite aspects of the job, but he was getting rather good at it.

Joe had only given Maids of Iron a few minutes of his attention before moving on to the rest of the room. Nicky had been disheartened by that. There were few people he respected as much as Yusuf Al-Kaysani and maybe the better, more talented artist was now thinking that coming all the way from London had been a waste of time.

People tried to monopolize his time and Copley kept pushing him this and that way to meet people he deemed essential for his success as an artist. Nicky found most of them to be obnoxious, but he was smart enough to know it was a necessary evil. If that was the way to live off of his art, he’d do it. So many people struggled to make ends meet when doing what they loved, and here he was, already worth a small fortune at the age of 32.

An hour later, he sought refuge in a quiet corner of the gallery to get away from a patron with some very strong opinions on where he should be taking his art next. Joe was already there, back turned to the rest of the room and hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. Nicky had only ever seen him in streetwear, something Joe was as famous for as his paintings, but he couldn’t deny he looked just as handsome in a suit.

Joe didn’t look at Nicky at first, nor did he bother wiping his eyes when he finally realized he wasn’t alone anymore.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, eyes fixed on the scimitar mounted on the wall. The tag underneath it read: The Sword of Jerusalem.

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Really. I find it extremely moving.”

Nicky could feel his heart swelling with pride. He’d been waiting for Joe’s verdict on his art all night. Copley had told him before that the fellow artist had privately called him “the next big thing” and “a force to be reckoned with”, but Copley had a tendency to exaggerate if he thought it’d get Nicky motivated.

“That’s my favorite piece out of the whole collection,” Nicky told him.

“I can see why. How long did it take you to finish?”

“Five months. Well, a couple of days to put the parts together. But the carving took forever. It just… refused to be done. You know?”

He’d driven Copley mad with it, always claiming it wasn’t ready, not yet, he still had things to add. He’d come close to scrapping the whole piece many times. Carving Maids of Iron had been a year-long process due to the size of the iron maiden he’d chosen to use as a canvas, but that blasted scimitar had been his most challenging project by far.

Joe was chuckling.

“Do I? I always drive Booker crazy two weeks before the deadline.”

It was reassuring to hear that from another artist, especially one he held in such high esteem. It was like finding out a god could bleed.

Somewhere behind him, people “ooh’ed” and “aah’ed”. Nicky flinched.

“Did the fire start?”

Joe looked back, utterly unfazed. “It did.”

“Fuck.” Nicky downed the glass of champagne. Gallery owners insisted expensive alcohol tested better, but Nicky was always too nervous to taste the difference. “I told Copley we were taking it too far.”

“It’s a… statement piece.”

That was kind of him to say, but Nicky shook his head.

“It’s pandering, it’s what it is. I heard people calling it ‘woke’. My English is shit, but I don’t think that’s very good.”

Joe laughed. Not a mockery. More like they were sharing a joke. Like they were old friends rather than acquaintances who’d only met each other on a few occasions.

“Your English is fine. But yeah, that’s not the presentation I’d have gone for.” He looked at the sword again. “Your work is exquisite. All the details. Just beautiful. It’s frustrating that I can’t see all of it inside that tank.”

Nicky had spent a year working the black iron maiden - from putting the pieces together to carving its surface. If one could get past the water tank Copley had insisted on, they would see the faces and bodies of women, first in agony at the bottom, where they were close to hellish flames, but then happier and determined as they rose from hell and reached for the padlock on the back. If one came close enough to look through the eyes of the mask, they could see the shadow of deranged eyes staring back at them. An unnamed evil that was now locked away. Nicky had called it Maids of Iron.

Copley had complimented him on his work, then told him to dunk the whole thing in a water tank for better effect. Worst of all, Nicky had made the mistake of adding light to the inside of the iron maiden, so the eyes of the great evil looked almost sorrowful and effeminate now. The story of women walking away from hell together became some weak narrative about female oppression as the women drowned trying to save a fallen companion. Something for people to look at and go, “Oh, how terrible life was in those times!”

Nicky hated it in the end, but it had sold within thirty minutes of the exhibition starting. If pandering was the price to pay for doing what he loved, it was a compromise he was willing to make.

“Steven likes it,” Joe told him.

Nicky nodded politely, but he doubted that was a sincere compliment. He’d overheard Steven complain about the champagne being cheap and then make a passive-aggressive remark about how Nicky’s work was _almost_ as good as his boyfriend’s initial art - you know, before he really “got the hang of it”.

“What’s the story behind this one?” Joe asked, pointing at the scimitar.

Nicky hissed. He wished he had a good story to tell. Something about a great-great-great-grandfather who was a priest, or a long-lost diary that had recently been found and whispered great inspiration into him.

“You’re gonna be underwhelmed.”

“Try me.”

“I went on a YouTube binging frenzy one night and ended up consuming every video about the Siege of Jerusalem.”

To his surprise, Joe didn’t laugh.

“Ah! So it’s an insomnia project. That’s where the best art comes from.”

“Tell that to Copley,” Nicky said. “He thinks pulling all-nighters is bad for me.”

Joe tutted disapprovingly. “Agents. What do they know?”

He ended that remark with a wink that Nicky was sure caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I suppose I was disturbed by the violence,” he continued. “This was my way of making sense of it. I think. I’m not sure. It’s not very-”

“There you are!”

Copley passed an arm around his shoulders. He exchanged brief pleasantries with Joe and dragged Nicky away to meet someone he didn’t care about.

Some thirty minutes later, he spotted Joe leaving the gallery with Steven in tow. The boyfriend had a sour look on his face that Nicky attributed to boredom. It was only when the night was over that Copley informed him Joe had purchase The Sword of Jerusalem.

“The boyfriend was furious,” Copley said, sounding amused by the whole thing. “Kept telling him that swords aren’t _real art_ and that it was a waste of money. But Joe was very keen. I guess you got yourself a fan.”

Nicky’s heart fluttered in his chest. For the next few days, he couldn’t stop smiling.

——

Had it been two years already? It was hard to believe. Nicky had thought back on that night so many times it might as well had happened the week before.

He remembered the dread of watching Maid of Iron drown in the tank, and the taste of the champagne, and the boring conversations. But then there was Yusuf Al-Kaysani, standing in front of his favorite piece in the exhibition, claiming it was his favorite, too. Extremely moving, that was what he’d said.

And exquisite.

 _Your work is exquisite_.

That was the kind of feedback that motivated and pushed him through the artist blocks and self-doubt. And, not that he’d ever confess to it out loud, it was rather fun to think about those words at night - that beautiful voice in his ear, the feeling of his lips on his skin.

_Your work is exquisite._

_You’re exquisite._

_Beautiful, talented Nicolò._

_My Nicolò…_

Not that he thought about that often. Only when he was working. Or resting. Or awake. And sometimes when he was asleep, according to his last boyfriend, who informed him that he’d been whispering another man’s name in his dreams on three separate occasions before he finally broke up the relationship.

Nicky didn’t fault him for it. He was glad to be blessedly single when Joe called out of the blue and asked if he’d like to have dinner. Well, he’d asked if they could meet and talk, but he hadn’t said no when Nicky suggested a restaurant.

He hadn’t been able to resist. Joe spoke with the most endearing tone, each pause, and hesitation drenched in nervousness. Who’d have thought Joseph Jones would be so shy at heart? And hell would freeze over before Nicky wasted the opportunity to take him out on a proper date. He’d thought of nothing else since the tragic end of Joe’s relationship - which he supposed made him a bit of a bad person, but enough time had passed. Maybe Joe was ready to start dating again, and Nicky wasn’t about to let another man cut in line now that they were both single and living in the same country.

 _Don’t look too eager_ , he whispered to himself on the back of the taxi. _Try to make it to dessert before asking for his hand in marriage_.

Yes, that sounded reasonable. But Nicky wasn’t making any promises.

 _Either way, we’re sharing a taxi when the night is over_ , he thought, pretending that was a reasonable compromise. _I didn’t put on my best suit not to see it scattered on his bedroom floor. That would be such a waste._

Nicky forced the corners of his mouth to stop smiling and hoped he wasn’t too flushed when he stepped onto the sidewalk. Joe was already in front of the restaurant. His buzz cut was now a head of brown curls and the stubble Nicky had imagined scratching his skin so many times had grown to a full beard. He had on the same suit he’d worn to the exhibition two years before, but he’d ditched the tie tonight. He was wringing his hands compulsively, which put Nicky at ease. It was nice to know he was as nervous as him.

“You look so handsome,” Nicky said, surprised at his own forwardness.

Joe’s eyes snapped at him, momentarily lost. “Sorry?”

“The beard really suits you.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, scratching it like he was only now realizing it’d grown. “It… saves time in the morning. No shaving and…”

He trailed off.

For a moment, neither said a word.

“Sorry, hi,” Joe finally said, offering his hand.

Nicky took it. “Hey.”

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

“My pleasure. I was hoping we’d run into each other now that I’m in London.”

“Yes. When-when did you move here?”

“Last month. Copley finally convinced me. He said Malta was a great place to visit, but there were no good museums in Valletta.” Nicky rolled his eyes, amused. “Agents. What do they know?”

He expected to see a spark of recognition in Joe’s eyes, but the comment went over his head. He looked at the restaurant. The sign above the door read _Il Sacerdozio_.

“Have you been here before?” Joe asked.

“Yes. Authentic Italian food. You’re gonna love it.”

Nicky had found the little restaurant during his first trip to the UK seven years prior and made a point to visit it every time he was in town. It gave him a special sort of pleasure to know that he was introducing Joe to something new.

The waiter took them to a candle-lit table near a window and brought them the drinks menu.

“Do you want to order a bottle?” Nicky asked. “They have a nice selection of-”

“No, I’ll just have water,” Joe said. Then, probably seeing the look of confusion in Nicky’s eyes, he added. “To start. I’m not a twelve-stepper or- you can order a bottle if you-”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just have a glass of Chardonnay.”

The waiter bowed his head slightly and took the menus from them.

Joe cleared his throat. “You look good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve cut your hair since I last saw you. It looks nice.”

Nicky smiled at him.

Joe tried to smile back, but it looked awkward on his face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your last showing,” he said. “I’ve heard it was spectacular.”

“Thank you.”

“I saw a picture of the shield. What was it called again? The one that was featured in The Times?”

“The Coat of Thorns,” Nicky said with some pride. Copley had been the one to name it, and while it was a little melodramatic, Nicky was glad he hadn’t had to paint the whole thing in red or set it on fire. He’d made each of the 120 metal roses that formed the crusader shield by hand. It had been excruciating work and he’d have hated to see it go to the route of Maids of Iron.

“Yes, that,” Joe said. “Beautiful work. I wish I could have made it to Rome.”

“With everything that happened, I can hardly fault you.”

Joe blinked slowly and said, “Yes. Everything. It’s been a long year.”

The waiter came back with Nicky’s glass and he took a sip of the wine, waiting for Joe to say something. He didn’t. He had his eyes on the table, momentarily lost in thought.

“I’m so sorry,” Nicky said. “I didn’t want to bring up bad memories.”

“It’s fine, it’s…”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, but even that seemed to take a herculean effort.

“It is what it is,” he concluded, looking crestfallen and nothing like the mad genius full of energy who easily commanded the attention of everyone in any room he walked in.

Nicky leaned forward and put his hand over Joe’s.

Joe looked up.

“I’m happy you called. Really.”

There was a moment when Nicky thought he was going to smile back at him - and then, something dark went through his eyes and whatever effort he was making fell short. Slowly, he retrieved his hand and sat back on his chair, staring at Nicky. He wasn’t offended, though. Nicky could see as much in his eyes. He was… heartbroken? Was he reading it correctly?

“Did I cross a line?” he asked.

Joe didn’t answer at first.

Then, “I think I’ve given you the wrong impression.”

Nicky took a moment to process his words. He hoped he didn’t sound too disappointed when he said, “If this is a dinner between friends, that is fine. I’m glad to have your company.”

Joe dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Christ- this is just perfect.”

“Listen, if I’ve made you uncomfortable and you’d like to cut the dinner short-”

Joe dropped his arms and spat all of it at once.

“I need to sell your sword.”

——

It was Nicky’s turn to be stunned into silence. Before him, Joe was awaiting his reaction like a prisoner awaiting a sentence.

All that Nicky could muster was a confused, “I’m sorry, what?”

Joe took a deep breath - a _very_ deep breath, five-seconds long of courage - and explained, “The scimitar I bought from you two years ago. The Sword of Jerusalem. I need to sell it and I’m not sure who to sell it to. I was wondering if you’d be willing to buy it back.”

A waiter returned to their table. “Are you gentlemen ready to order-”

Nicky raised a finger. “I don’t think we’re gonna be here much longer.”

The waiter looked from one man to another and gracefully excused himself, seemingly glad he didn’t have to stick around to see whatever shit storm was about to go down.

Joe, however, didn’t have that option and was looking increasingly nervous.

“You want to return my sword,” Nicky said.

Joe hesitated. “I… want to know if you’d be willing to buy it back.”

“Right. So you want to return it.”

Again, he hesitated. “That’s not how I’d put it.”

“I made a work of art and I sold it to you and now you’re asking me to take it back and give you the money you paid for it,” Nicky recited, making sure to sound as irritated as he felt. “Did I miss something?”

“I…” Joe tried, but soon he realized there was no point. “No. No, that’s what I said. Yes.”

“Right, so you want to return my artwork as if it were a shitty pillow you picked up from Walmart.”

Joe’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Not a sound came out of it. Nicky stared, demanding an explanation.

“As a fellow artist,” Joe finally started, “I understand how offensive that sounds-”

“How offensive that _is_.”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t even ask if I had another choice,” he continued, hurriedly. “It’s not a- not everyone wants to hang a sword in their living room. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Then why didn’t you let Booker handle it?”

“Booker doesn’t represent me anymore,” Joe said, sounding bitter for the first time. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have met you if I’d had the choice.”

To his credit, he seemed to regret the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. It didn’t make Nicky feel any better.

“Great,” he said. “That’s just great. Thank you for that.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean- I wish we could have done this under more pleasant circumstances.”

Nicky downed the rest of his wine and ignored him. Joe took the hint and went quiet. Of all the ways he’d thought the night could go wrong, Nicky had assumed the worst that could happen was to be rejected. Nothing as bad as that had crossed his mind.

The waiter reappeared to ask if he’d like another glass, but the words were barely out of his mouth when Nicky snapped, “We’d like the check. Please.”

Joe was still waiting. It felt wrong to see him like this, so small and subdued.

 _Cornered_ , Nicky thought. _He looks cornered. Like he has no choice but to be here, humiliating himself._

 _And humiliating me,_ he remembered before he could feel sorry for the other man.

Nicky said, “You should have told me that over the phone. Would have saved us both the time.”

“I wanted to. But then you suggested a restaurant and I just- I don’t know.”

Nicky waited for him to say something else. He didn’t. He wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

The check arrived. Joe tried to reach for it, but Nicky was faster. He shoved a twenty-pound bill into the leather book and let the waiter take it. The hell he was going to let Joe pay for it as though they were in a real date.

“I’ve heard you’d run into some financial issues after your boyfriend died.”

Joe raised his eyes. Though he still looked trapped, some irritation showed in his eyes.

“Wow, gossip traveled all the way to Malta, did it?”

“It did. Well, I’m glad my artwork is worth _something_ to you.”

Joe stared at him, arms crossed. His tongue poked at his lips and cheeks, like he was making a great effort to hold back a torrent of angry words.

Nicky hoped he’d let them out. It’d be more satisfying to make a scene in a restaurant than to go back home with a broken heart, cursing Yusuf Al-Kaysani’s name and hating himself for being so naive.

The only thing to come out of his mouth was a terse, “Do you want your sword or not?”

Nicky huffed instead of shouting, but the sound was still loud and angry.

“What the hell,” he said. “I’ll even pay you full price for it since that’s all it means to you.”

“All that it-” Joe started, but he stopped before his voice got too loud. He swallowed his pride and said. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll have it delivered to you by Monday.”

“No, I’m taking it now.”

Joe looked at him. “What?”

“We’ll share a cab to your place and I’ll pick it up. Do you still have the case it came in?”

Nicky shot to his feet. Joe didn’t follow suit.

“It’s… not urgent,” he tried. “It can wait-”

“Well I don’t want to wait,” Nicky said, adamant. “I want to be done with this nonsense as soon as possible. So I’m getting the sword tonight. I can transfer you the money once I’ve seen it.”

Joe closed his eyes and sighed.

He got up.

“Fine. What the hell. Let’s go get the damn sword.”

——

That wasn’t the taxi ride Nicky had hoped for when the night began. He thought there’d be a lot more kissing and a lot less frigid silence, but neither seemed to have a word to say to the other. The only time Nicky spoke was when he realized the road they were taking and asked, “I thought you lived in Marylebone.”

All that Joe said was a curt, “I moved.”

That made sense. He probably didn’t want to be surrounded by memories of his dead boyfriend. And if he did run into financial trouble, it’d make sense to move somewhere cheaper. It was hard to say where, since he wasn’t familiar with London yet, but the taxi kept going for a very long time.

The vibrant streets outside his window were slowly replaced by empty sidewalks and dull buildings that blended with the night. Nicky had no idea where they were, but he guessed they were heading somewhere just outside of London.

The taxi ride wouldn’t be cheap.

 _You don’t owe him anything_ , Nicky thought. _Just get the sword, transfer him the money, and forget this night ever happened. You don’t have to see him again after this. Besides, if you offer to pay for the taxi, he’s just going to be offended._

The car pulled up next to an apartment complex that had seen better days. Joe didn’t look at him as he handed over the money.

Nicky did try to say, “We should split the-”

But Joe told him not to worry about it and got off the vehicle.

Nicky had never been to Joe’s old apartment, but he’d seen pictures of it in the odd interview. It was a modern penthouse with tall, glass windows that let in a lot of natural light. The paintings on the walls were not Joe’s as he couldn’t bare to look at his own work once it was finished, but they were a tasteful mixture of styles that fit each room and complemented the furniture perfectly. Nicky had found it surprisingly ostentatious for a man who did his own exhibitions in jeans and bomber jackets, but undeniably pleasant.

The little rundown building Joe lived in now had small windows and a sign at the door reminding residents to please lock the door. Nicky followed him inside and walked straight past the broken elevator while Joe informed him that he lived on the fifth floor.

The air was a mixture of air freshner and spices that wafted through the thin front doors of his neighbors. Somewhere up the stairs, someone had their television on. Even when Joe opened the three locks on his apartment door and motioned for Nicky to follow, the sound followed them in. It was some sort of game show, one with loud buzzers and bells.

Joe had his back to him now that he was looking for the sword so Nicky took the opportunity to look around. A single room with a tiny kitchen and a small bathroom on the side. That was it. Joe had furnished it with a couch and there was a mattress pushed against the back wall, but other than that, there didn’t seem to be much to do. Near the single window in the room, there was a stack of canvases, most of them blank. The one that had a splash of color on it also had a hole in the middle, like someone had punched his fist through it.

The leather case that contained his sword was locked inside another suitcase and securely padlocked. Joe rolled in the combination and brought the case to the kitchen counter. Though he was definitely angry, he was still careful when putting it down. He clicked it open and stepped away with a, “There you go.”

Nicky approached the case and looked inside. The scimitar was lying on red velvet, looking as shiny and as sharp as the day he’d made it. The blade was only slightly bigger than the actual swords he’d used as reference; one would have to be an expert to tell the difference. He’d been forging weapons for twenty years and he was excellent at it.

The carvings had started out as a pattern of thorns, but the more he learned of the Siege of Jerusalem, the more the design changed. He was going to have an army of faceless soldiers marching down to the Tower of David at the handle of the sword, but the army became a single man wearing a cross on his chest. And then there was second man wrapped in a shemagh. They’d started out facing each other, but then Nicky had decided to stab them both with each other’s blades.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right.

So Nicky carved their free hands reaching out for one another as their wounds bled down towards the tower. He’d painted the leather on the handle blood red. Nicky still wasn’t satisfied, so he’d turned the sword upside down and carved the blood of Jerusalem coming down on them. Drowning them as they tried to reach for each other while also killing each other.

It was… confusing and overwhelming. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say with it. Maybe it didn’t have a meaning, it was just senseless violence that made him sad. No one had given it much thought during the exhibition, so he’d assumed it only meant something to himself. And to Joe, who’d stood crying in front of it for a good fifteen minutes.

And who’d taken such good care of the sword that it looked cleaner than the rest of his apartment.

Nicky sat on the couch beside him. It creaked.

Joe’s eyes shifted, but they didn’t focus on him.

“Well,” Nicky said, “now I feel like a perfect asshole.”

Joe didn’t disagree.

“In my defense, you could have explained the situation better.”

“Well, Nicky, you’re not my friend and I would rather not have to explain how financially fucked I am to every other acquaintance I come across, thank you very much,” Joe snapped without looking at him.

Nicky felt ashamed of himself.

“Right. That’s fair.”

“Anyway, that’s the sword.”

Nicky nodded but didn’t move.

“I hardly ever get to talk about art anymore, you know?” he said, presenting the words to the other man like they were an apology. “They all just want to talk figures at these events. Is my work worth something? Is it going to look ostentatious enough on some rich asshole’s wall?”

Joe was looking away from him, a fist pressed angrily against his lips. But he still said, “I used to hate that.”

“Makes you feel cheap, doesn’t it? Like the entire world is staring at you, trying to put a price on your worth. It’s not about content or about what you’re trying to convey, it’s just about monetary value.”

Joe grunted in agreement.

Nicky said, “What I mean is that I thought that was what you were doing and I’m sorry.”

Joe didn’t say it was fine. The wound of humiliation was still too fresh. But he did say, “It’s really annoying, isn’t it? Everybody asking when your next big thing is going to be. Like you have to blow their minds every single time.”

Nicky nodded. “Yes. Exactly. And there’s always someone who’s so disappointed at these events. They liked your old stuff better.”

“I hated that. I don’t even feel like painting anymore.”

“Is that why…?”

Nicky motioned at the tiny apartment.

Joe looked at him.

“Why I’m broke?”

“Sorry, you don’t have to tell me-”

“No, that’s not why,” Joe said. “ _This_ is what happens when your boyfriend wants you to pay for his expensive lifestyle and throws a tantrum every time you don’t do what he wants.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

Joe humphed and Nicky thought the conversation was going to die. But then he sprang to life once again.

“Then he throws another tantrum when you don’t want to invest in his pharmaceutical company just because he’s found some hack who claims she can cure cancer if he gives her a state of the art lab. And it’s all ridiculous, really, but eventually, you give in because you love him and you want to be supportive and, what the hell? It’s just money. It’s not like you can’t spare a bit of it.”

Joe sighed.

Nicky was going to speak, but he continued on.

“ _And then_ one day you find out your boyfriend has been getting credit cards under your name so he can take his investors to expensive restaurants and his bodyguard to the best hotels so they can fuck behind your back - which was just-” He chuckled without joy. “Just the cherry on the fucking cake, let me tell you.”

“Wow. That’s really-”

Joe raised a hand.

“No, no, pardon me. Finding out that he was cheating on me because I tested positive for gonorrhea was the cherry on the cake. That was a great day of three consecutive bad news: the cheating, the debt, and the fact that my agent - and _best friend_ , mind you - was selling some of my earliest sketches behind my back to help Steven keep the whole thing a secret because he didn’t want it to ‘get in the way of my creativity’. Just the worst 24 hours of my life. Which are followed by an even worst week when the doctor vanished, taking away most of my money. So Steven saw fit to jump off of the penthouse and leave me to deal with the angry investors because _of course_ he did. Typical of him, making a mess and leaving me to clean it.”

Joe took a deep breath.

Nicky waited.

His hands were shaking when he wiped his eyes. He exhaled heavily and let his hands flop to his sides.

“I let him put my name on the lease for the office and the lab because I am an idiot. So now I have to sell that-” he nodded at the sword on his kitchen counter, “-to cover the late rent before I’m taken to court _a third time_ this year. I’ve already abused the goodwill of my friend Quyhn and I don’t want to make her work _pro bono_ to help me out of another mess. So… yeah, that’s how I ended up in this shitty apartment.”

“Sorry.”

“You know what’s funny?”

Joe looked at him. Nicky didn’t answer. None of it sounded particularly amusing.

“I used to feel guilty for having that on my wall. I had to hang it in my atelier and Steven would glare at it whenever he came by to ask for money. He insisted I fancied you.” Joe looked away, shaking his head. “Which I did, to be honest, but at least I never acted on it.”

Nicky was going to speak, but Joe was faster.

“You don’t have to stay and indulge my pity party, Nicolò. And… you weren’t an asshole, I shouldn’t have asked. You can just take that and go and, I don’t know, write me a check. Do people still use checks? Or just take the sword and forg-”

Nicky reached for his hand.

Joe looked at it.

“Go back to the part where you said you fancied me,” he said. “I liked that part.”


End file.
